


Saviour Complex

by kissed



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'm afraid Henry is still dead here, I'm on a roll lol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissed/pseuds/kissed
Summary: “He’s not going to come back,” I heard him the first time and I almost knocked out his front teeth when I punched him so hard he needed a few seconds to gather his thoughts before we silently drove to the hospital to have it checked. He had a slight concussion, the doctor had told him, came away with a couple of pills and a strict instruction to stay in bed until the bruise turns yellowish instead of the blaring violet blue. Francis phoned me later in the day to tell me his teeth were still stuck to his gums, I responded by hanging up the call.
Relationships: Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen, Richard Papen/Henry Winter
Kudos: 15





	Saviour Complex

I took the drink Francis handed me and downed half of it instantly. He eyed me and raised a brow, I shrugged and continued to look at the horizon that was slowly turning into a dark blue, seconds after, what remained of it faded to black, backlit by the glow of the city. His shoulder bumped into mine, I didn’t look in his direction even when I knew it was his attempt to get me to talk, I couldn’t, I wasn’t in the mood and Francis knew better than to force it out of me. He gives up, I heard it in his sigh and the rigidness of his throat as he downs the whole drink in his hand and clinks the left over ice. I feel bad for being shit company, I really do but it is one of those days when I just want nothing to do but wallow in self-pity and list down the things I could have done to change the events of the past. 

“He’s not going to come back,” I heard him the first time and I almost knocked out his front teeth when I punched him so hard he needed a few seconds to gather his thoughts before we silently drove to the hospital to have it checked. He had a slight concussion, the doctor had told him, came away with a couple of pills and a strict instruction to stay in bed until the bruise turns yellowish instead of the blaring violet blue. Francis phoned me later in the day to tell me his teeth were still stuck to his gums, I responded by hanging up the call. 

But when he did it the second time, I had neither a foot in reality or was high to the sky, drugged up to the Gods to react the same way I first heard him say the truth that I still could not bear to hear. The third didn’t ignite the same violent reaction Francis was gunning for nor the fourth or fifth. Perhaps this might be the thousand and seventeenth time (or more) he had reminded me that a love lost will never find its way back after taking a wrong turn to the underworld. _You’re not Orpheus, you are not special, not some star-crossed lovers bullshit, a love so tainted, I don’t think you could call it such_ , had heard all these supporting comments that meant to injure me and have me bleed until I felt deliriously agitated. Time and again, he had tried to get a rise out of me but I never snapped or gave Francis what he wanted. 

What he wanted was confirmation. He wanted it to come from my mouth that I liked Henry more than I ever acknowledged. That I held (and still do) him in high regard. For what? Probably so he could have his closure. He never got one after Charles had ran away with that cougar he met in the center and he certainly wouldn’t get anything from me unless he actually stops being a dick about it. If Francis would have just asked, I might have deflected him the first time, then the second time and then probably give him a chance the third time. A chance to know the truth, a chance to learn what he wants to learn and not hurt himself or me in the process and maybe I would realise that it’s just him and me who’s left and that we ought to protect each other from whoever wants to peek through it. 

_I could do well for you, if you just let me,_ and yes, I really do think he would but every fiber in my being does not want to accept the affection I cannot whole heartedly return. It’s not fair to Francis, not fair to me and not fair to everyone else involved. Francis is my friend, through thick and thin, he always will be. I will take his secrets to the grave, even if he lets me go that is primarily the reason why I cannot and will not hurt this person. 

These thoughts probably softened me enough to lean back into his shoulder, to respond to the baby step he took earlier that I so clearly blocked. His humming and warmth pressed into the thin layer of my clothing seemed to be a good sign, I took a deep breath and turned my head towards his chest, Francis wounded his arms around my back and squeezed. 

“I don’t want to see you hurt,” I tell him through muffled sounds. My mouth is stuck somewhere between his skin of chest and the silkiness of his top. I heard him slip out a low chuckle, a breeze cut through us again and I wished we were inside nursing hot chocolates and nit-picking soap operas rather than rehashing the same old wounds that we can never get a move on, picking them until they are raw and bloodied only to create a deeper scar until we can no longer fix it. I feel him squeeze me tighter, I squeeze back only to offer him some sort of comfort I can never fully give him. The same comfort he would give me if I only asked, I would be the luckiest and most loved person in the world if I just allowed him access. 

“And you don’t want him to see you happy,” it’s struck a nerve. Francis always knew how to push the buttons I so desperately skirted and pushed away when it became too close. I shut my mouth, my lips flush with his skin now and looked up to where his eyes were staring right down mine. I couldn’t look away, his handsome and pointed face was always a sight to see and his red hair lost its lustre throughout the years but otherwise he had aged gracefully just like I thought he always would. 

Sensing my distress and feeling guilty for his observation, he closes the tiny gap between us and leans in to press his lips with mine. Still full and mine perpetually chapped, I no longer know how many tubes of chapstick Francis had slipped into my jacket pocket, how many he had “forgotten” in Henry’s BMW that I still drive to this day and the stray ones he leaves in the night stand when he would find himself sleeping over instead of leaving dead in the night. I close my eyes and start to kiss him back, respond to his plea for a chance but intimacy wasn’t a gauge for love and we both knew that. We have dabbled and gone through many rendezvous in our lifetime. Some with others, most of the time with each other but only because the nostalgia hits like a bullet train at its fastest speed and I wonder if Francis knows how to differentiate from being in love to adapting to what is familiar. 

X

Some time around two in the morning, I felt his fingers brush the rogue hairs away from my face. I knew I needed a haircut but it has been terribly cold outside since the last bits of autumn die and the beginnings of winter start to trail in. I crack an eye open then see his eyes dark and glistening, shifting a little to get a tad more comfortable for him and I then hummed into his touch. Francis would have been an excellent lover, no doubt about that. 

“You were mine first,” he softly declared. I do not negate him because this is partially true. Only partially true because Henry is not here to object. Charles and God forbid, might even be the case for Bunny. Our little group might have loved each other a little but it was glaringly obvious of the fact that while we did, we had our favorites and it was clear who was mine from the beginning. 

Henry Winter was a beacon of light. If it was a warning for me to stay away or for an invitation to come in, I do not know. I did not care for the specifics because I was simply enthralled. It was him who my eyes followed, it was his commanding physique and coal black hair that rested above his eye just so got me hooked, line and sinker. Even before he spoke, before I even knew that he wasn’t just a brute but his mind was much more vast and free running, that his tongue spoke more languages than I ever care to study. Even if I wanted to run, I couldn’t have. I had a personal ball and chain stuck to Henry Winter and he knew, _oh Gods he knew_ how he had the key to set me free but he didn’t, none of us did for that’s how our group survived. We thrived in owning something because what is life if we did not have someone to dazzle, if there was not someone to terrorize with the beauty they knew well they possessed? That was what Henry winter was for me. Beautiful in his silence. 

I did not bother to respond to his statement. I wasn’t in the position to do so and I simply had no proper reply to something as strong as that. Francis sighed and kept grazing the fingertips on my skin, my forehead down to the slope of my nose until it reached the tip, making perfect circles on the apples of my cheek, tracing the seam of my upper lip. I let out a sigh and as I did, slowly, he dips a half inch of his index finger and I claim it and wet it with my tongue. His breath hitches and I shift once more to get our legs to tangle deeper into the web we already have and Francis’ resolve does not linger a second longer, he retracts his hand from my mouth and dips his neck down to replace it with his lips. 

X

  
Half naked and bent over a pan, I whip up an easy brunch for the both of us. I can still hear his silent puffs of slumber because I left the bedroom door open. Instead of turning on the lights, I drew the curtains right before I cracked the eggs and heated the pan. Coffee maker’s beeping signalled its completion and I slid the food into plates and put them in the island where we can enjoy them later when he decides to wake up. 

Perusing Francis’ bookshelves is always a delightful activity. It is stacked high, just before it hits the already high ceiling of his home. A stool is placed conveniently on the side in case he needs to reach higher up but for me, I needed something higher to do so but I never bother as I am already preoccupied with what I am seeing at eye length down to the floor. I slip out a dusty copy of an Ovid that I haven’t read in such a long time, I flip open the pages and almost choke at the amount of allergens it might have sprayed towards me but after a few minutes of getting my lungs to work and my nose to clear up, I set my eyes on the aged pages. It occurs to me that this is the same book Francis had carried back in Hampden. Perched on top of the nightstand when they would spend their weekends in the country, drunk and carefree as a bird with feelings. 

Flipping through old books truly are the best things in the world. Taking up pre-med was a mistake that I was so grateful I got out of even at the expense of my sanity right now, even when I more often than not am robbed from a good night’s rest with the thoughts that swim and dive and jolt me awake. I turn over the book up until the very end of the page, the one where I can see the back of it peeling off and frayed and I nearly drop it out of surprise. I took a step back as I did, my eyes never leaving the spot of the book where I know I need to check once more, my hands feel warm so suddenly, it creeps quickly to the back of my neck even when I am naked from the waist up. The pitter patter of feet coming closer is something I conveniently tune out, Francis’ worried eyes stare me down but all I can see is the book and the way Henry’s faint ghost hovers over it as if to pick it up to hand it back to me, _are you alright, Richard?_ His cool and calm voice would inquire and I would have nodded and thanked him silently then carried on. 

A violent shake put me in my place. The image of him disappears, Francis’ voice slowly tunnels into my eardrum and I finally hear his labored breathing, the chattering of his teeth, how fierce he shivered only to realise it was all mine and I was the one battling a panic attack. I take a deep breath and tear my eyes away from where the book sat silently, no one asked if I was alright with a cool and calm voice because Francis’ high pitched worried tone blared through me and around the living room where he ought to put more furniture if he wanted to dispel of that overbearing echo. It wasn’t good for someone’s sanity especially when he’s living alone. I came back to my senses and closed my eyes for a hot minute. His finger rubs my spine repeatedly, the way he would when I was plastered and too intoxicated to function only I am just not intoxicated with alcohol but something much more intense. I come out of it fine, my breathing has evened, my vision clear. 

“Put some pants on. Food is ready,” my voice comes out garbled and strained but I know Francis caught the cheekiness in it. He fights an urge to smile but a snort and a relieved sigh slips past his lips as he helps me back to my feet. My legs felt like jelly as I tried to stand on my own, Francis had his shoulder under my armpit, treating me as some drunk off the street. I probably was, I was drunk off repressed feelings and guilt. I was drunk off of hindering my own happiness by wallowing in self-pity and doubt. 

He helped me in my seat then tottered to the coffee maker, poured us both a cup and handed me the utensils and I started to blow the steam off my cup then had a careful swig. I closed my eyes again and I thanked the gods for simple joys, I heard Francis chuckle as he crossed to where the island is, slightly decent with last night’s pajamas pants on and finger combed hair, he sat right in front of me and started to dig in his scrambled eggs. 

A comfortable silence envelopes us. The sound of mindful chewing and swallowing was our background music but Francis can never keep his mouth shut especially after nursing me back to reality. 

“How often do you get those?” I do not want to lie to him but not knowing the truth is one less thing that he needs to worry about so I shrug my shoulders and tell him not often. I see a piece of egg on his moustache he’s trying to grow, I am terribly amused at his attempt to be honest, and pick it out using my fingers and place it inside my mouth. He smirks and continues on with his food. I poked and moved mine using the fork and pushed it aside when Francis cleaned off his, I stood up and went around to get his plate and mine. Rinsing it off before placing it in the dishwasher then finishing off the rest of my tepid coffee. 

“You need to see someone,” comes out of the blue. His back turned from me as he washed his hands, I stood with my back straight and did not let myself be triggered. When he is finished drying them, he faces me head on with a serious face that I did not particularly like seeing especially this early in the morning. 

“What if I wasn’t here? You could have died for God’s sake. I thought you were going to choke yourself. You forgot how to use your organs, you forgot how to breathe. Your eyes were literally rolling towards your skull and I knew you couldn't hear me because I was yelling my head off and my throat felt scratched raw afterwards,” He takes my hand in between his and I let him, only for this time and stares at our connected hands. 

“You can’t keep pretending he’s not dead. You drive his car around like it doesn’t give you a hundred and one problems with how old and unsafe it is and don't deny that you hide some of his clothes in the deepest part of your closet. A pair of his glasses in the nightstand drawer. I know all of it, you're not as good as liar as you once were. This isn’t a good way to live, Richard. This isn’t a good way to live,” 

I could have swung my fist that was balled so tight I knew I would have knocked a few more teeth than two. Broke more than just his pearly whites and probably injured his eyesight with all the blood that could have swam there, he could have cried his own blood, running down his cheeks like a Madonna statue. But I didn’t, saved him a trip to the hospital, to the plastic surgeon, saved him from riding my motherfucking unsafe vehicle that did nothing but serve me well throughout this years. Sure, it had broken down once or twice. Caused me a pretty penny here and there but it is vintage, it has been running since ‘82 and if that goddamn thing wanted to rest in peace just like his original owner then I will do everything I couldn’t do to stop Henry from pulling the trigger and let the car keep running until it would outlive me if that’s the last thing I’ll do. 

Instead I look back where Francis is shedding clear fat tears down his cheek, running down to his neck where I just kissed so softly a few hours earlier before this heated discussion we are having. I shake my head then look down again at our connected hands and shake my head again. 

“You are afraid,” I say then I look up to meet his eyes and smile. 

“You don’t want me to meet our maker. You are afraid of being alone,” the statement sends chills down our spines. He nods. 

“I’m not going to lose you too,” he sniffs away another possible tear. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” I assured. 

Francis closes his eyes and places a kiss in the middle of my forehead then rests his heavy one on it, wisps of his hair tickle my eyes and nose. I find them surprisingly dry. 

x

It is exhausting to play hide and seek with my demons on the daily. Agreeing to live with Francis surely needed some sort of adjusting but he was an amicable roommate and I require nothing that he cannot give me. 

It is usually I who prepares meals and Francis in charge of after meal libation. I drink less nowadays but I humor him once in a while whenever my demons seem to win over our little game. I don’t tell him about it, I do not want him to worry. 

He tells me he loves me before we sleep and lets me know again when I open my eyes. I never respond with anything else but an appreciate smile or a kiss but he doesn’t push nor does his eyes make any indication he felt disappointed. He knows I love him, I really do, would do anything for him and be there for him because that’s how much I love him. I respect him, I adore him but I am not in love with him. Not in the way that he wants, I do not think I will be able to transfer such a one time feeling to someone when I have already pledged it to somebody else. 

Even when that somebody is neither living nor breathing, I refuse to award my heart to someone that is not him. 

I agree on his request to see a therapist. I said I would try, he says that’s all he wants. So I go twice a week and I hate to admit that it does help me a little bit. It’s a journey, a long one, both Francis and my therapist had said and I already knew that, only this time, I think it might just work since I am making the effort instead of refusing it. 

Our cohabitation is healthy and our relationship has been stronger. Francis no longer pushes my buttons nor does remind me that I needed to do this or that or that I need to let go of A, B or C. We both started to work harder towards each other, to build a relationship that was solid as a rock seeing as it's only going to be the two of us in the end. I slowly saw the kindness in his stance when I would stuff some more snacks into our shopping cart as he stood in line. How I felt the string pull whenever he would come in the house and announce he has arrived and brought gifts. Usually it would be take-out from our favorite thai place or the cream puffs on the other side of town but even when he doesn’t bring anything, just his reassuring voice that he had come back safe and well changed something in me that I was so sure he felt as well. 

Though I cannot give him my heart or at least not like he would have preferred but having Francis come home to me and see him in our space, naked and guards left at the doorstep was something I realised I never had. 

A home. 

Henry is my heart and Francis is my home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot stop thinking about Richard and Henry that's why here's another one. Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
